Only your pa knew as how I were the one as saw to you at the wet-nurse’s cottage, and he got a-hold of me and made me bring him to you. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. Even in the daylight, it had a sombre and suspicious air, and seemed to slink back from the adjoining houses, as if afraid of their society. The entire city seemed to exist for beauty and art alone. He had drawn a horrid picture of the fate that awaited mademoiselle when once the populace discovered her relationship to the Valade family. When I went I was refused admittance. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. But I've not promised to stand by him yet; nor will I, unless he turns out an honest lad,—mind that. His first date, he was a late bloomer for a Popular. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. My late husband, I mean. Perhaps I deceived you about it. Mama will be expecting me.
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